


Disaster Edition

by elle_stone



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Ark Era, M/M, Pre-Canon, Starboard Window Bay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 19:56:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7984222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_stone/pseuds/elle_stone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Monty Green, get ready for on which planet would you rather…. Disaster Edition!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disaster Edition

**Author's Note:**

> It was really hot this summer, okay?   
> Originally posted to my tumblr.

“Monty Green, get ready for _on which planet would you rather_ …. Disaster Edition!” Jasper declares, in his old-fashioned TV-announcer voice, deep and bombastic if broken somewhat by his grin, because it’s his turn to pick today.

Monty rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling and fond. He finishes smoothing out the wrinkles in the blanket they took from the Jordans’ couch, then holds out his hand in a pass-it-here gesture, so Jasper will hand over the herbs they stole from the Greens’ pharmaceutical garden. “Right, right. That’s cheery.”

Jasper takes a hit first, long and slow like he always does—Monty watches the way his cheeks hollow and then how he exhales, how his eyes close and his head tilts just the slightest bit back. He looks totally at peace, fucking _blissful_.

It’s really annoying.

“Okay,” Jasper says, in a let’s-begin voice, as Monty plucks the joint out from between his fingers, brings it to his own lips. He’s only half-listening as he closes his own eyes and inhales. He knows exactly how Jasper’s sitting, though: cross legged with his elbows on his knees, leaning forward, like they’re sharing secrets, but already restless, rocking side to side as he speaks. “Okay. On which planet would you rather face off against a tornado?”

“Earth,” Monty answers, as he opens his eyes. “No question.” He pauses, his brow furrows, and: “Tornadoes are the ones that go like this, right?” He points up with one finger and twirls it around in a circle, very fast. He’s picturing a great column of whirling gray smoke, traveling down a long dirt country road on its narrow little base, ripping the roofs off wooden houses and frightening cows. “Like a—what’s the thing—a twister!”

“I said _tornado_ , though,” Jasper reminds him. He sounds _very_ serious, and Monty already finds this _very_ funny.

“It’s the same thing!”

Jasper looks skeptical, but Monty’s pretty sure it is. He glances out the bay window at the moon, full and bright from here, a bit of beauty for once, takes another puff because he can, it’s still his turn, and shakes his head.

“Anyway—Earth obviously. I’d face a tornado if I could do it on Earth. On which planet—” he hands the joint over, their fingers brush, he pretends he does not notice—“would you rather experience a flood?”

“Earth!” Jasper calls out, and briefly throws his hands up in the air. He laughs a little, at nothing, and is not at all fazed by the realization that, “We’d last about a minute, not being able to swim. I bet Earth water is great, though.”

“You really know how to look on the bright side.”

“Thank you. Hey Monty, on which planet would you rather suffer heat stroke?”

Monty holds the joint up in front of his face, as if thinking, as if he were really considering and it helped him focus, or were the necessary object of his focus. A bit of smile twitches at his lips. “ _Mars_ ,” he declares, at last.

He expects some reaction to that answer, but not for Jasper to yell, “Traitor,” and tackle him—which he does. There’s a brief moment of confusion, the wrestling match they would have gotten into six months ago avoided, Monty tells himself he doesn’t know why, and it doesn’t matter—until they end up lying on their backs side by side, looking up at the nondescript gray ceiling of the ship. Their shoulders are touching and they’re silent.

Then Jasper reaches over, slides the joint from Monty’s fingers, and scoffs, “Mars,” like the word disgusts him.

Monty takes a slow breath in, and a slow breath out, an echo of Jasper’s breathe-in-breathe-out. He feels a little dizzy and a little faraway. “Earth,” he says quietly, into the silence that has settled around them again. “I’d suffer heat stroke on Earth.”

“Yeah you would,” Jasper agrees, with a soft, satisfied nod and a small smile. Several heartbeats pass. Jasper shifts, slightly, and his shoulder bumps against Monty’s; he moves his feet and the toes of his shoe click against the toes of Monty’s shoe. “You know on Earth they have summers. Like… real, hot summers.”

“Mmmm,” Monty agrees, the word ‘summer’ bringing up a burst of images to the fore of his brain. “ _Yeah_.” The word rumbles deep. It sounds almost obscene; his eyes are closed tight and he’s trying to picture it, an Earth summer. “I think we’d have an apartment somewhere—with a balcony. And we’d sit outside in the afternoon—”

“And it’s so hot you can _feel_ it, like the _air_ is different.” A wisp of sound—Jasper inhaling, sighing on the exhale—then Monty feels the back of a hand against his hand, a _hey, your turn_. “We have a fan though, and we pass it back and forth—”

“Why do we only have one?”

“I don’t know, Monty, that’s just what I’m picturing. And we’re drinking….mmmm, iced tea—”

“ _Lemonade_ ,” Monty corrects. “With ice in it. It tastes sharp and cold.”

“Yeah, yeah. Exactly.” Jasper’s grinning. Monty can’t see him, but he can picture it, and in the world he does see—their balcony, the sun, a clear blue sky—Jasper’s grinning too. “It’s so fucking hot out that the air actually _shimmers_.”

“And it smells like asphalt and grass and _summer_.”

“And you can feel the sweat between your shoulder blades and on the back of your neck and you don’t care.”

“And we stay out until the sun sets and it starts to get a little cooler…”

“But not by much.”

“Not by much.” These last words are no more than a murmur. Monty blinks his eyes open slowly, and lets himself stare, for a long moment, at Jasper’s eyelashes and the outline of his nose. “You think it was ever really like that?” he asks.

Jasper shrugs. “I think I want to believe that it was.”

Monty looks up at the ceiling again. This color gray is a non-color, a nothing, a void. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I want to believe it was too.”


End file.
